The van had been bouncing along this awful road for nearly four hours, and Wu Mo’s backside had gone completely numb.
The driver was an ethnic Burmese man who hadn’t stopped talking the whole way. He went from cursing Aung San Suu Kyi to cursing the military, then from the military to fuel prices. Wu Mo pieced together the Burmese mixed with broken Chinese as best he could. Leaning against the window with his eyes half closed, he reviewed the information in his head: the layout of the Wu family villa, photos of the key figures, and Su Yue'e’s dossier, which he had read over and over at least twenty times.
“Boss, we can’t go any farther.” The driver hit the brakes and turned to look at him. “This is the Wu family’s territory. They don’t let outsiders’ cars in. You’ll have to walk.”
